


Overdone

by swordliliesandebony



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 07:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12930636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: Shortly after the news of Insomnia's fall reaches the bros, Noctis is working himself into oblivion. Prompto finds himself at a loss, unable to help in any meaningful way, unable to make sense of why he's even there. [Request fill for a Promptis Fanweek prize!]





	Overdone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joshatron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joshatron/gifts).



> This got a little bit away from me and is maybe a total rambling fluffy mess with no point to it at all. I'm so sorry for taking so long to fill the request, I hope it's an okay fill!!

Prompto should have seen it coming. He should have noticed the signs. This isn’t the first thought to cross his mind when Noct goes down, but it races to the forefront once they’ve hobbled their way back to camp and it doesn’t leave that spot. Prompto, if anything, had contributed- not assisted- to the almost inevitable breakdown. That realization doesn’t come as a shock so much as a sinking, aching, heartrending dawning. Every effort he’s made since that morning in Galdin when they learned that their world had unceremoniously crashed down has been bane over boon.

Noctis’s resolve in the first days had been downright inspiring. Prompto had watched in absolute wonder as Noct took that pain, faced it, swallowed it down and transformed it into something properly awe-inspiring. Sure, some of it had come from that ancient relic, that spectral weaponry that Cor had guided them to. Every point after that though, every point that led them here to their somber camp, it was all Noct. It was all fury and heartbreak transmuted into pure  _ power _ . None of them had thought to question him, to hold him back or force a rest, to simply confirm that he was  _ okay _ ; not until he hit the ground after nightfall caught them by surprise and the enormous daemon sprouting in that darkness even more so. 

Prompto, for his part, had been aiming desperately to keep the mood light, to keep a smile plastered on and a joke in the air. It had seemed, from time to time, even to be working. He would catch an upward tug at someone’s lip or maybe even draw out a clutch of laughter. It was the best- the only thing- he could do, and he focused on it just as relentlessly as the others had focused on combat and strategy and any number of points that might actually prove useful. And somehow, in that, he had managed to miss the part where Noct was running himself ragged, running himself beyond the point of exhaustion and to where they sat now.

The wounds, Ignis has decided, aren’t the true cause for concern. They’re relatively minor- enough so that he trusted Prompto, after some instruction, to tend to them. They’re not the reason, he thinks, that Noctis lost consciousness in the first place; simply an unfortunate consequence to the prince- king now, a bitter thought in Prompto’s mind- pushing so far beyond his limits. They’ll take a rest and all will be well. Rather, Noctis will wake and they’ll push on again and maybe they’ll pretend things are okay. Prompto doesn’t think ‘well’ is a state that’s coming back any time soon.

Now, now that it’s too late really, Prompto is paying attention to nothing but Noctis. It’s been the full of the night and a good portion of the morning since they struggled their way to the haven. Prompto spent a good deal of that in loud, overt, unshakable panic. Gladio had to snap more than once for him to be quiet, assuming he didn’t want to draw that much more danger on their short journey. Ignis was somewhat more sympathetic, but Prompto could see it in his eyes. His position as the Person Who Shouldn’t Be There was coming to the forefront. He was making this all that much harder and it was wearing thin the patience of his betters. He tries not to think about that, just as he  _ always  _ tries not to think about that. Funny enough, it’s not so hard, when he has Noct to focus on instead.

There isn’t terribly much to be done for Noctis, save letting him rest. It’s probably the reason Ignis felt comfortable entrusting the bulk of his care to Prompto. He won some heavy gashes, big angry claws raked across his chest, but nothing a couple potions didn’t work their wonders on. The skin there, meticulously cleaned and bandaged, is already well on its way to being fully healed. Beyond that, Prompto’s usefulness as temporary nurse has been limited, to say the least. There was an early attempt to smudge some of the caked dirt from his face and his hair, but the efforts drew enough winces and groans that Prompto was quick to abandon the idea. So now, he’s relegated to hand-holding, to the occasional smoothing of hair or gentle reassuring when Noct stirs or thrashes in his sleep. 

Prompto only barely glances up when he hears rustling at the tent’s entrance, the telltale pull of the zip. He’s lost track of time for the most part. He knows that day broke some time ago. The tent has been growing increasingly warm and canvas only blocks out so much light. There’s a vague recollection of Ignis and Gladio rising, checking in, nodding and then going out to whatever business they had around the campsite. Something more important, he’s sure, than sitting there in a near-trance, running fingers over the back of Noct’s hand. Still, even if there was anything useful Prompto  _ could  _ be doing, he’s not sure he’d have the will to pull himself away from Noct’s side.

“You’re still awake,” Ignis doesn’t sound particularly surprised when he makes the silent creep into the tent. Prompto takes a quick look at him, back down to Noct, and offers a quiet nod. He doesn’t bother trying to read Ignis’s expression or dig anything out of his tone of voice. He doesn’t exactly  _ care  _ what the prevalent opinion here is, truth be told. He cares about being at Noct’s side when he wakes, springing into action should he need anything, being more help than hindrance for once, “any changes?”

“Not really,” Prompto finds a strange quality has taken to his own voice when he speaks. It’s a little drawn, a little raspy. His throat feels just a bit thick, unspent emotion banked up in the back of it. He likes to think it’s impressive that he hasn’t broken down, that he’s remained steadfast and constant and quiet at Noct’s side through the night and beyond. The reality is more likely that it’s pathetic that he’s had to try so hard at it, that he’s fretting so intensely over what is admittedly little more than exhaustion and much-needed rest, “he kinda grumbles and rolls around sometimes. Doesn’t seem like he’s waking up any time soon.” 

Ignis offers a curt nod, something that Prompto catches only out of the corner of his eye, before he goes to sit himself near the two. He brushes a hand against the flattened fringe that keeps falling back at Noct’s eyes, presses fingers briefly near the base of his throat as he looks over the sleeping form. Prompto doesn’t say anything else, not without being addressed, but he watches rapt and wonders for a moment if he was expected to be keeping a better vigil, to be tracking vitals or examining wounds or any number of things that a more competent person might think of. 

“You’ll need your rest too. No sense in waiting for him. I think we both know how well Noct can sleep when he puts his mind to it,” this time, Prompto can’t miss the tone in Ignis’s voice and it’s something that makes his cheeks flare fire hot and his hand draw away from Noct’s as if those metaphorical flames spread to the touch. This is the hard part. This has always been the hard part. Ignis isn’t stupid. He’s about the furthest thing in the world from it, in fact. Prompto feels himself reeling back internally, his mind dancing through a million mornings and mid-afternoons where he woke up tangled in Noct’s arms, with Ignis giving a specific clearing of his throat or a nudge and a stern look. Never mean, never outwardly disapproving, but with that constant look of concern that made Prompto feel ice in the pit of his stomach.

A lot of memories hit Prompto all at once, in fact. It wasn’t so long ago, was it? Hands clasped together, the warmth of his cheek on Noct’s chest, laughter and nudging and the goddamn taste of his lips. It feels like a lifetime. In some senses, Prompto thinks, it  _ was  _ a different one. There is such a defined, immovable border. That wall between then and now, where whispered words and shared glances and secret touches were all left back on the other side of that barrier. Back home. Back to a place that doesn’t even  _ exist  _ any more, not in any way that resembles the pictures in Prompto’s mind. His eyes are burning right along with his cheeks, suddenly and before he can do a damn thing to hide it.

Silence falls between the two of them, harsh and heavy, and Prompto almost relishes in it. He feels Ignis’s hand press on his knee, but he ignores the touch. He’s lost now, lost fighting against the sudden rise of emotion. The loss of Insomnia, of home, it’s something that he hadn’t processed, not really. He had thrown himself so whole-heartedly into being the voice of optimism, the one role he thought he could play. He didn’t bother to think about, well, much of anything. Not anything other than making the others smile, than distracting them from the truth of the situation. There had been those numbing moments in the beginning, the question of what happened to  _ his  _ parents- not important people, not royalty or titled guards or anyone that would be heard of or from through the tragedy. He thought of his home, a little cold and a little empty, but still at its core his  _ home.  _ And he thought of that apartment, of the day he and Noct packed it up and said goodbye to what had, for Prompto, been some of the best days he had ever known. But it was all in abstracts, all with the same vague and muted sense of loss he felt when they set out in their journey to begin with. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, there had always been a safety net. There had always been the knowledge that he could go back. It wouldn’t be the same, no, it could never be the same. Things had changed dramatically and violently from the moment they became aware of Noct’s impending wedding. But those places were still  _ there _ . Prompto could still go walk through the arcade or hole in up in the back of the diner or use any number of little touchstones to revisit that past. Now, there was nothing. There was no going home, no looking back through anything other than those memories plaguing him so brilliantly now. He sucks in a breath, harsh and shaking, bears back against the emotion streaking his cheeks.

“I should’ve known he wasn’t okay,” he manages to speak, words that tremble and fall and lift in strange patterns with the hitching of his breath and the struggle against sobs, “I mean, how could he be? And he was pushing himself so hard…”

“None of us realized. A lot has happened, Prompto. I daresay a good deal more  _ will  _ happen, too. His injuries weren’t severe and I think we can agree that this rest was sorely needed,” Ignis pauses and narrows his eyes on Prompto. It’s another uncomfortable feeling, one that makes Prompto want to squirm right out of his skin. “Frankly, I’m more concerned with you at the moment. I get the impression that you’ve been ignoring what’s happened since we left. Perhaps since before then.” 

Prompto finds his eyes lifting again to Ignis’s with the words. He can’t deny that they come as something of a surprise to him. Ignis showing some concern, well, maybe it’s simply his way. He’s always been kind enough to Prompto, less skeptical of him than Gladio, in any case. He wouldn’t say that they’re especially close- he intimidates the hell out of Prompto, truth be told. But after Noct, he’s probably the closest thing to a friend Prompto’s got and there’s a strange sort of comfort that comes just from the idea that he would  _ care _ . 

“I’m not ignoring it,” Prompto whispers the words, knowing full well that they aren’t entirely truthful. He’s absolutely been  _ trying  _ to ignore it all. He’s been trying desperately not to look too closely at Noct, or at very least not to be caught at doing so. Ignis knows what happened before all this. He knows about their secret little relationship, the stolen moments that they both knew were nothing more. He doesn’t need to give anyone reason to think he’s still clinging, even if that is absolutely the case. Even if the fact that he’s on this trip with them at all is proof enough that he’s not moved on. But there’s the rest, too. The fall of Insomnia, specifically, those points that he tried to dance around, to avoid speaking on after the first night or two of numbing shock. He’s been trying horribly hard to ignore all of that, and he’s been failing pretty damn magnificently at it, “can I ask you something Ignis?”

“Whatever you need,” Ignis sounds so warm, so considerate when he speaks. Prompto wishes he could pull that off. He wishes he could find that balance that makes him an actually useful comrade rather than the over-excited puppy he seems to play the role of so much more naturally. But that’s where the question comes in and he steels himself for it. His knees are drawn up now and his face hidden against them, ignoring Ignis, ignoring the way Noct is occasionally stirring in his sleep, ignoring everything other than the heat between his breath and his jeans.

“Why am I even here?” if anything proves that he hasn’t been ignoring the situation, Prompto thinks, it’s that question. The one he can’t quite answer himself. Noctis invited him, of course, that’s the simple solution. But why was he  _ allowed _ ? A few hours of training didn’t prepare him for any of this. He’s not helping the situation. If anything, he’s holding them back when battles arise. And as if that weren’t enough, he couldn’t even tell that Noctis was working himself so literally to the verge of collapse. Ignis is silent long enough for Prompto to feel his stomach sinking further, to feel that much more resolute in his fears, in his  _ knowledge.  _

“Noctis needs you,” the words that Ignis settles on stab right through Prompto’s gut, through his chest, make him feel a little like his whole body is seizing up. They’re bullshit, he knows that much without a doubt. He hasn’t done anything worthwhile so far and it’s not exactly as if that’s changing. Ignis doesn’t leave it at that, though, and somehow it makes it that much worse, “this isn’t easy for any of us, Prompto. Gladio and I have had the benefit of preparing most of our lives for what comes next. You,” he hesitates, a rarity for Ignis. Prompto doesn’t lift his head. “He cares for you, Prompto. You know that. His life was set to change drastically after this trip, even before what happened in Insomnia.”

There is something that goes unsaid there, another point that weighs so heavily on Prompto’s chest that it feels hard to breathe sometimes. After this journey, after his wedding, there’s no going back to what he and Prompto were. It’s more than their home being gone and it would have been the case still if Insomnia was waiting for them as they had set out expecting. This trip, as much as anything else, is their goodbye. Prompto isn’t stupid, not as stupid as he might give reason to believe. He knows that, in the grand scheme of things, there is no place for him at Noct’s side when he’s thrust into ruling. He’s known that despite all of Noct’s reassurances to the contrary. He’s known since the damn beginning of their friendship- never mind everything else- that he’s a piece that never entirely fit, that nothing about this was ever more than temporary.

“That’s a shitty answer. It all ends up the same. We say goodbye in Insomnia or we say it in Altissia. It’s still the same. A couple more weeks doesn’t change anything.”

“It means you’re alive now, safer than you would have been in the city.” Ignis says, and of course he has to point that out. Prompto wants to roll his eyes at it, wants to shoot back some smart remark, some point about the fact that Noctis didn’t  _ know  _ what was going to happen to their home, that he wasn’t doing this out of some need to play hero. That it still didn’t make any sense for Prompto to be accompanying them. He doesn’t, though. Ignis will only come up with more of his dumb logic to whatever argument Prompto comes up with and, suddenly, he feels far too tired to put up the fight.

“And you’re all in more danger, cleaning up my messes. And I can’t even notice when my best friend is trying to work himself to death. Not really a fair trade,” there’s a strange bitterness there, and Prompto thinks it’s something that Ignis likely hasn’t heard before. Hell, it’s something that he hasn’t let slip in a long time. Maybe not at all since he and Noctis became friends. He had worked so hard and for so long  _ not  _ to be that bitter person, not to wallow in the past, in his failures. He wants to look to Ignis and Gladio and Noctis and find something there to cling to, some way to make himself better. Right now, though, it feels impossible. It feels like the light at the end of an impossibly long tunnel, entirely out of sight, entirely too far to reach.

“Prompto,” Ignis says his name in a strained voice. Again, Prompto doesn’t look up, but he can visualize a grimace that he thinks is probably pretty close to his actual expression. Distantly, in some part of his mind, Prompto is well aware that he’s not being fair, to himself or to Noctis or to any of them. He knows, logically speaking, that he’s taking on too much blame, that he’s  _ not  _ being logical. It’s a hard leap to make between that vague awareness and his actual, present feelings, though.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he manages to speak in a voice that is  _ almost  _ steady. There are still tears fighting, prickling at his eyes, but he’s just about gotten a hold of himself, nearly found some composure. He takes a deep breath, then another. His head is aching, searing quite suddenly, from the effort of it all. From his head being thick and heavy and throbbing with mostly unshed tears, from the night he spent playing vigil to Noct, from the emotions he has been trying so desperately to pack away in favor of some attempt at levity. He shakes his head a little, hidden as it is against his knees, then lifts and forces what can only be described as an absolutely pathetic smile, “you’re right. I’m just tired. I’ll lay down for a little bit.”

He does a good job, he thinks, of ignoring the very pointed look Ignis gives him when he finally lays himself down, makes a token effort to spread a bit of the sleeping bag over himself. It’s far too hot for it to be comfortable, probably too hot for Prompto to actually manage to drift off, if not for the absolutely bone-deep exhaustion that’s sinking in so sudden and powerful. He offers up another weak smile that has Ignis nodding, if slowly, wishing him some pleasant rest before he disappears. Prompto expects that he’ll toss and turn, that he’ll stay staring at Noct, lost in his head, but he doesn’t. With Ignis gone, with his body trembling again against emotion, he tangles their fingers back together and, before it can all get the best of him, Prompto is out.   
  


* * *

 

 

Prompto doesn’t realize where he is immediately upon waking.

There is an absolutely blessed moment where he thinks he’s back in the big, appropriately king-sized, bed in Noct’s apartment. It’s not his fault entirely that his mind drifts to that assumption. Arms are wrapped around his waist, breath heated at the back of his neck where Noct’s face is buried. There’s a tickling of hair along his jaw. It’s all instinct when he moves his hand to stroke over Noct’s arm, moves himself to press back a little into his chest. Everything else, for those few seconds, was just a bad dream. The trip, the destruction of Insomnia, seeing Noct fall apparently lifeless before those daemons… just a trick of his mind in the depths of the night.

Unfortunately, he has to open his eyes.

It feels a little bit like missing a step, taking a short little half-fall down the end of a flight over a miscalculation. His stomach drops out so violently and immediately, the hairs on the back of his neck raise and his body goes all tense, nearly leaps around him. Noct feels it, of course  he does, and he tightens his arm just a little, grumbles something that almost sounds like a word. Prompto, for the moment, doesn’t know what to do. He knows what he needs to do. He needs to untangle himself, to work out how long he slept and what time it is, where Gladio and Ignis are. Most urgently, he needs to make sure Noct’s okay, because there’s no doubt in Prompto’s mind at this point that he’s been out for the better part of a full day.

He’s not out any more, though. Prompto doesn’t realize that part until he goes to turn in Noct’s arms to face him and finds they give, open up, adjust. A hand goes to brush hair out if his face, to tilt his chin a little. It’s all a bit of a whirlwind, truth be told. Prompto is frozen when he settles back, with those eyes on him, tired but alive, the smallest hint of a smile drawn across lips.

“Pretty bad when you’re sleeping later than me,” there’s a sense of warmth there, something close to affection, something that Prompto knows he needs to draw himself away from. Instead, he feels his own lips tugging upward and his head ducking. He can take just a moment, right? The days have been hard, the nights have been harder. Ignis and Gladio aren’t in the tent yet- it’s just the two of them, unseen. Just a moment of respite, with his forehead pressed warm against Noct’s chest, that’s allowable.

“I’m sorry,” his voice is rough again, but this time Prompto expects it, tries immediately to clear his throat. He feels the embrace go a little bit tight again and, again, he feels that damn need to get away. No. Not need. Obligation. This can’t happen and they both know it. But Prompto doesn’t have that sort of willpower, not where Noctis is involved, and especially not when he  _ wants  _ to be here, with arms and warm skin and gentle breaths all around him. He closes his eyes again and even with the hard ground beneath, it’s not too hard to pretend he’s living a few months in the past.

“For sleeping? I can probably let it slide this time,” Noctis knows it’s more than that. Prompto isn’t dumb enough to fall entirely for the tease, even if it makes him smile for a moment. There’s a nudge at his shoulder, a familiar gesture, and that makes him smile too, makes his heart swell uncomfortably in his chest. This is all such a bad idea. Coming along, he’s afraid, was the worst of them all. But he doesn’t say that. He focuses instead on the matter at hand.

“For letting you get hurt. For not noticing you needed a break. I’m supposed to be protecting you, right? Isn’t that why I’m here?” his voice is as strained and rough as it was before and the question is enough that Noctis backs off, if only a little bit. He tilts Prompto’s chin again, gives him no choice but to look Noct in the eye. It’s a little bit difficult, really, if only because he can still feel the lingering sting in his own, because he knows that they’re swollen and pink and more of his weakness is on full display there.

“Don’t be stupid. You think I would’ve slowed down, even if you guys told me to?” Noctis gives a little huff of that, something between light laughter and utter indignation, “Not a chance. You guys covered me, so it’s no sweat, right?” Prompto tries to look away, he really does, but he can’t do it. He doesn’t feel a whole lot better, not about missing all of the signs, even if he knows damn well that Noct is being truthful here. There’s no way in hell that any of them could have stopped Noctis if he didn’t intend to slow down himself. More likely, they would have only driven him over the edge that much sooner and steeper. It doesn’t entirely wipe away the guilt plaguing Prompto though, and it definitely doesn’t make him feel any better about the situation as a whole.

“You’re okay, then?” there’s still a tone of worry to his voice, something Prompto doesn’t try to hide here. He’ll put the cheerful front back on eventually, once he’s sure Noct’s okay, once they’re back out on the road and this day, these couple days, are behind them. For now, he’s hoisting himself up, regretfully out of Noct’s arms, to give him a better look. He wins a out from the effort, a genuine look of disappointment that drive between his ribs.

“Nothing a nap couldn’t fix. What about you, Prom?” Noctis moves, this time to make himself comfortable with his head in Prompto’s lap. Prompto doesn’t bother to push him away, as much as he knows he needs to. Instead, his fingers move to play through Noct’s hair, almost mindless in the gesture. They spent a lot of time like this, back in that other lifetime, and Prompto’s movements work on instinct still.

“What about me? I wasn’t the one to get my ass kicked this time,” he manages to keep the tone playful and he gives a little flick at Noct’s forehead when he says it. He only earns a swat and a serious expression in return, which makes his heart sink just a little bit. It’s a strange emotion, truth be told. He doesn’t want Noctis to worry about him, even though he’s pretty sure he earns that worry more often than not. On the other hand, Prompto feels that same strange warmth as he did with Ignis, multiplied exponentially, when Noct is showing concern.

“You’ve been working hard too. Can’t be easy to act so cheerful all the time. I…” Noctis hesitates, thinks through his words before he continues, “appreciate it. I know you’re doing it for us, to keep things from getting too heavy. That helps.”

Prompto isn’t sure that he believes the words. If he was really helping, they wouldn’t be in this position right now. Noct wouldn’t have worked himself into oblivion, they wouldn’t all be teetering so close to breakdowns. Even Gladio has been starting to show wear, starting to display a bit of that stress on his sleeve. Ignis is good at hiding it, but Prompto can see it peeking out the edges there, too. Any attempts he’s making aren’t really doing much at all, as far as he can tell.

“Kinda the only thing I  _ can  _ do. And I’m not really getting that right,” Prompto runs a hand along the back of his head, a nervous scratching gesture that gives him an opportunity to duck away from sight. Except, of course, given their current positioning he’s only ducking to look more fully at Noct. He would laugh at himself if he didn’t feel quite so stupid about the whole thing.

“It’s important,” Noct says quickly, and a little bit less quickly he makes his way out of Prompto’s lap to sit in front of him instead. His expression is going more serious now, stern and focused, eyes practically burning into Prompto, “super important. You keep me out of my head. And you keep us from tearing each other’s throats out,” he laughs a little bit at that and Prompto smiles, even if he’s still skeptical, “why do you think I brought you? I mean, other than to keep me from dying of boredom in the car with those two all day.”

“Kinda been wondering about that,” Prompto doesn’t exactly mean to make the admission. He wishes, just a little bit, that he could take it back, because Noctis gives him a look he’s not entirely familiar with. It’s something in the realm of hurt, that much is clear. Betrayal, maybe? Definitely not a look Prompto ever means to bring to Noct’s face at the very least. He feels a hand tangle with his and, after so much of the night was spent that way, it feels natural and easy, reassuring and warm. It almost makes him smile again. Almost.

“You seriously need to start giving yourself some credit, dude. I mean, yeah, I wanna spend every minute I can with you before...y’know…” Noct goes quiet for a moment and both of their heads drop. They try not to talk about it, not since that night where they had to set the rules and the boundaries. Where Noct had asked in such a small voice if Prompto would still come with him when he had to leave for Altissia. Noct swears he can make a place for Prompto among the guard or somewhere at court and Prompto nods along, both so likely knowing it’s impossible. That silence, that trailing off, it’s just another nail in Prompto’s proverbial coffin, “...but it’s not just that. You really do keep my head on straight, Prompto. Not like Ignis or Gladio, with all the lecturing. Like they haven’t said it all before,” there’s a hint of annoyance that’s honestly a little reassuring in its familiarity, “it’s different with you, though. Y’know?”

“Not really,” Prompto can’t help but admit, something he feels terribly guilty for. He goes on, tries to explain out, “I mean, we play games and make stupid jokes. I… don’t really have a lot to contribute here, Noct. I’m glad to be here, don’t get me wrong, but Gladio and Ignis, they  _ belong _ . I-”

“-belong too,” Noctis cuts him off immediately and he squeezes his hand. His face still has that expression, somewhere between ferocity and pain and Prompto doesn’t know exactly what to make of it. It makes his stomach roil, makes a whole tidal wave of feelings rush over him, “I know things can’t be like they were. Not like  _ either  _ of us want them,” there’s a certain emphasis on that word, that ‘either’, that makes Prompto’s heart do a strange little backflip in his chest, “but I need you and your games and your stupid jokes. And your smiling and laughing and tripping on your own damn feet. Your place is here with me, as long as it can be. I’d lose it without you, man. Way more than I already have,” his eyes soften just a little, but he’s still staring Prompto down, “got it?”

“Got it,” Prompto, well, he’s not sure what he thinks. He feels better though, a little bit better in any case. Better enough that the guilt isn’t making him feel outright physically ill. Better enough that he can look at Noctis and see something other than bandages and bruises and maybe even manage not to blame himself for their presence in the first place, “pretty sure I’m supposed to be the one making  _ you  _ feel better, Noct.”

“Yeah, well. You are, Prom. All the time.”


End file.
